


1987

by ThatBitchintheCorner



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-23 23:24:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21328411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatBitchintheCorner/pseuds/ThatBitchintheCorner
Summary: Aziraphale in danger. Warning: violence and hate speech in this fic.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 76





	1987

1987

In Soho’s restaurant district, a single figure walks, umbrella overhead to protect him from the slight drizzle that has given the pavement a smooth sheen that reflects a dazzling rainbow of colors created by the various neon lights above. The gentleman, clearly a gentleman in his tidy appearance and eloquent manner, had just finished a more than satisfactory dinner consisting of a cheese tasting plate, caviar stuffed gnocchi blanched in a nage reduction, a delightful duck confit with seared Brussels sprouts and finished off with a bottle of 1963 Chateau Lafite Rothschild. 

This mild mannered gentleman hummed softly to himself as he turned the corner, leading him down a dimly lit side street. Three shadows slinked menacingly under the glow of a hazy street lamp. He looked up, noting a sinister chill in the air as the three shadows, belonging to three young men, strode towards him with ill intent.

“Good evening,” Aziraphale nodded and offered a smile. “Fine weather we’re having.”

The three young men triangulated themselves around him, the eldest of the trio sneered as the other two crossed their arms.

“Look what we have here! A proper pansy all dressed in his Sunday best.” The eldest spat bitterly. “Well, well, well. Do we take kindly to faggots on our turf boys?”

The other two men remained silent as they shook their heads. 

“See here, I do not want any trouble.” Aziraphale attempting to appeal to their rational sides, said calmly as he lowered his umbrella.

“Don’t want no trouble, eh homo? Just out of the prowl for a boy to fuck, and we’re supposed to just let you, you disgusting pervert?” The elder man laughed cruelly. “Aye Merrill, show him how we deal with boy-fuckers ‘round here.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, the tallest of the three throws a punch, striking Aziraphale under the left eye, causing him to stagger backwards. The other man forces Aziraphale to the ground with a sharp kick, knocking the breath from his chest. The eldest man, laughing with sickening glee, kicked him once more in the ribs. Aziraphale desperately tried to cover his face, dazed as another blow hit him in the back of the head. All the while, the men were shouting such terrible, terrible things at him. 

The leader of the trio takes a step back and from the inside pocket of his jacket, he pulls a serrated knife that he flips once over in his hand.

“Oy Tommy, you didn’t say anything about pulling a knife.” The one called Merrill said in a low voice. “He owns that bookshop downtown, you can’t just...”

“Don’t be a faggot,” Tommy sneered. “It’s just a bit a blood. Hold him up, will ya!” On command, the two men grabbed him by an arm and dragged him to his knees in the middle of the street. The elder boy, grinned with delight as he gripped the knife’s handle tighter, his hand steady as he pointed the blade at Aziraphale. “Time to die, disgusting pansy. Any last words?”

“You don’t have to do this.” Aziraphale pleaded as blood dripped from a gash on his head.

The man named Tommy laughed as he raised the blade, poised to strike Aziraphale in the chest. 

Suddenly, two huge yellow eyes struck without warning, an enormous black snake latched it’s fangs into Tommy’s arm, tearing tendon and flesh as he struggled to break free, his limp hand released the knife and it fell to the ground with a clang. Mitchell let out a blood curdling scream as he frantically sprinted away. The other man attempted to help pry the massive snake from his friend’s unfortunate appendage, and for his efforts, was bitten in the thigh, a deep wound that most certainly would never heal fully. Both men recoiled in horror as the serpent lifted its great head and seemed to grow and grow and grow until it was as tall as them. The towering figure seamless morphed from beast to man, yet any who would be so unfortunate as to catch a glimpse of this creature knew that it was nothing of this earth; a slender, yet menacing creature with hair ablaze and wings as black as night. Wings that when stretched out, filled the entire street, blocking out the light from the overhead lamp until the only sight visible were those two, huge and furious golden eyes. The figure growled in a low, ancient hiss that filled the air surrounding lower London with a grim terror; stirring nightmares and malcontent in its wake. “Sssss leave now before I send you to Hell.” 

The men, clutching their bleeding wounds, stumbled off into the night. Unknowing that their souls were already marked for unending torment, forever scarred and eternally cursed.

“Arizaphale!” The demon cried, lowering his wings and defenses, cradled the angel in his arms. 

“Crowley,” he whispered. “Oh Crowley. You didn’t kill them, did you?”

“I should have.” Crowley snarled through tears as he tried his best to wipe the blood from Aziraphale’s face. 

“Take me home, my dear.” Aziraphale begged, still trying to catch his breath. He closed his eyes and leaned in against Crowley; finding strength and a softness that made him feel safe. 

He helped him to his feet, and together miracled themselves into Aziraphale’s bookshop. He drew some water into one of Aziraphale’s numerous antique china bowls and drew a tartan handkerchief from the stack the angel kept on his oak desk. 

“Come on, let me have a look.” Crowley sighed as he dipped the kerchief in the water, and began to clean off the blood. As he wiped, the cuts and bruises healed, leaving no signs of damage upon the angel. “A little demonic miracle of my own.” He muttered, trying desperately to get a reaction from Aziraphale.

“They were so angry, Crowley. I could feel their hatred the moment I saw them. Why?” His bright blue eyes filled with tears, and soon they were streaming down his cheeks. 

“Oh, don’t cry angel! It’s over now. Then won’t hurt you ever again.” Crowley had always found it impossible to understand human emotions, much less the nuanced reactions to handling them. Normally, he would have retreated to the only coping mechanism he had actually learned from humanity over the millennia, and poured both he and Aziraphale a large glass of whatever alcohol was on hand. But this, seeing his angel in this state, nearly brought him to his knees in despair. 

Crowley set the kerchief down in the bowl, and sat beside Aziraphale on the plush upholstered couch.

“I don’t know, angel.” He said softly. “I don’t understand why hate comes so easily to them.”

“Imagine that it wasn’t me they ran into tonight, but another young man- like they were, and they took out their hatred upon him instead...” Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide in fear. “They would have killed him.”

“They were going to kill you. If they had, they would be spending eternity in Hell, and even that is too good for them.” Crowley replied.

“But why? What is it about love that inspires such hate?” The angel asked.

“You know how humans are, their capacity for evil, evil deeds outweighs anything we demons could conjure.” He reasoned.

“They called me terrible names.” Aziraphale whispered.

Aziraphale’s mind goes back to the assault, back to the pain, back to Crowley. “I have never see you like that before. The last time you took serpent form was...”

“The Ark.”The demon’s voice flat and without affect. 

“Your hair was on fire.” Aziraphale, suddenly finding a deep need to run his fingers through those fiery locks, whispered.

“Hmmm.” Crowley nodded as he continued to brush the dirt from Aziraphale’s clothing.

“I didn’t know you could do that.” The angel said, clearly impressed.

“I’ve never been angry enough before.” Suddenly Crowley stopped moving and raised his eyes to meet the angel’s. “That man was ready to kill you.”

“Lucky for me you were there to save me.” Aziraphale said gently, longing to reach out and take the demon’s hand, but thought better.

Crowley straightened himself, “I don’t see why people get so upset over how others choose to live their lives anyway. Seems to me that humans were given free will, only natural they would use it in any way pleasing to them.”

“Does that include love?” The angel asked delicately.

“Eh.” Crowley shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, I think love is a spectacular feeling.” Aziraphale mused. “Love feels as if all the goodness in the world is spinning around you, surrounding you in a beacon of light that fills your heart with such joy. It’s all so very wonderful.”

“Yes, well demons aren’t capable of love. No warm lights, no fuzzy auras and certainly no wonderful feelings.” The demon said quickly, as he silently miracles away the rips in Aziraphale’s usually well kept clothing. 

The angel studied the creature before him; as he worked, he felt the familiar heat radiating from him, a brilliant glow surrounded the demon, a dazzling dance of white light glinted and reflected from the ochre of his eyes. Such a display of affection he had felt and seen several times before, but this time, there was an aura of pronounced protection. He knew the encounter tonight had left him rattled, perhaps more so than himself. So he watched, silently adoring the one being who burned so brightly, who loved so fiercely, and who tried so desperately to play his role of evil if only to protect him- to protect them both from the recourse of Heaven and Hell.  If only you could see yourself right now, through my eyes.  He thought. What good would come from admitting his own feelings, to confessing that long has he stifled his own longing and desire to give his love and receive love in return? But he knows, in his heart, he knows that there is no greater joy than the love he feels in this moment, and for right now, that will have to suffice. “Oh Crowley,” he sighed as he gazed upon the vibrant swell of light surrounding his demon. “So sorry to hear it.”

“Nothing to be sorry about, angel.” The demon had finished his mending, and sat carefully inspecting his handiwork. “Just the nature of being a demon.”

“Crowley,” His voice just above a whisper. “Thank you. You’re always there for me when I need you. It’s quite a miracle, really.”

“Well, suppose it’s just the luck of the Devil.” The demon grinned, but the angel knew better; this was Crowley’s way of diffusing the tension, adding humor to quell the complication of his feelings, feelings that mirrored his own. For this, he would always be thankful and for Crowley, his love would remain ever faithful and ever patient. 


End file.
